


You're the Kind of Man Who Takes What He Can and Doesn't Ask

by weareelectrical (whoistorule)



Category: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Implied threesomes, M/M, Power Dynamics, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoistorule/pseuds/weareelectrical
Summary: It didn’t matter that the waistcoat of Miguel’s custom tux was sparkling white, or that his studied manners were perfect, he would always be unclean. Tainted by the blood that made those men rich. That kept their wives occupied. Their sons employed. Their daughters safe. But Miguel knew the truth. They were afraid of him.





	You're the Kind of Man Who Takes What He Can and Doesn't Ask

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are the characters in Narcos: Mexico, and not the actual people that lived. Their characterization is (hopefully) true to that. Translation convention applies. Any time they're speaking, it would be in Spanish. I don't speak Spanish and am not going to attempt some horrific google translate, so please allow for that suspension of disbelief. The title is from the Lake Street Dive song "Use Me Up."
> 
> As always, this is for the group chat. Love you nut jobs.

But for the raised glasses to El Padrino, the Molina wedding had little in common with the Governor’s son’s. There the tablecloths were white linen, lined with silverware like marching soldiers, not a tine out of place. Spill a drop of ‘68 Bordeaux and the world would know you were the kind of man whose hands were not steady enough for the baccarat. Here everything was the deep red of blood in the summer dirt, the kind of red that hid all but the worst stains. There were no velvet cushioned seats, no gilt painted metal framing. Even on the dais where Miguel sat, as honored as the family itself, the chairs were wood-backed and creaky, with cushions so thin he could feel every strand of wicker. He had no doubt that should he stand and turn the cushion over, the other side would be threadbare. Just like Ramon with his fucking shirt, the Molina cousins had no idea what real elegance was. Real class. The kind that money couldn’t buy, that you had to be bred for. 

Governor Celis had made that perfectly clear. It didn’t matter that the waistcoat of Miguel’s custom tux was sparkling white, or that his studied manners were perfect, he would always be unclean. Tainted by the blood that made those men rich. That kept their wives occupied. Their sons employed. Their daughters safe. But Miguel knew the truth. They were afraid of him. He could see it in their eyes when he asked after their families. Of course, in their trade the line between threat and concern was a knife’s edge, and Miguel took great pleasure in threading it through the fingers of his betters.

Here, there were no betters. There was no balcony, no velvet. The happy couple sat on a wooden dais, flanked by close family and cartel bosses just a step above the wide floor, which was packed with cousins, narcos, and their pre-purchased dates. It was like half of Sinaloa was there, from doughy toddlers to bent abuelas with sharp canes and sharper elbows. Miguel had made clear his seat should be on the side of the dais. High enough to visibly secure his status, but in the shadows, where he could allow the inevitable riot that was the Molina family to occupy the attention of any roaming eye. From there, he could oversee what needed overseeing. Who else would make sure that Rafa and Amado were kept apart, and all the other thousand little details that only he understood.

They had reached the part in the evening where someone had made the right demands of the band, and they were playing the old songs, the ones that got even the fat men dancing. 

Across the room he watched Isabella, half hard from the ache of it. She glowed in the yellow light of the ballroom, her breasts two tiny suns that bobbed above a red horizon. She was half hidden behind a pillar of a man; the cheap cut of his maroon suit and the polyester sheen of his black dress shirt betrayed him as one of the Falcon’s contacts. His eyes traced the curve of her shoulders, her bare arms, the way her polished fingers skimmed the high slit in her skirt, flirting with the hem.

Isabella knew, of course, that he was watching her. Across the room, she threw her head back and laughed, letting her hair spill across her near-naked back. When he closed his eyes, he saw her just like that, her head thrown back, his own hands in her hair as he thrust into her. He loved to watch her laugh, the way it shook her body, seemed linger in her belly, her hips. How easy it would be to slip his arms around her waist, to draw her to the dance floor, to let the music move them until there was nothing between them but silk and sweat. They’d stumble off the dance floor, picking their way through aging banditos, to the back alley. He’d slide his fingers beneath that slit and tear the dress from her in flimsy pieces, fuck her against the wall until they were both filthy.

When Miguel opened his eyes, Isabella’s leonine smile was pointed at him, her gaze sidelong before flickering back to the other man. Without taking her eyes off her companion, Isabella let her weight lean languidly to the side. Almost by accident, she stumbled a step into him. And those fingers, those lovely, elegant fingers, the ones that brushed his wrist, his neck, his cheek, slipped inside the slit of her dress and tugged it open. Just for a second. Just enough for him to see a glimpse of black lace and creamy thigh. Just enough to hurt.

Fuck. Miguel needed a distraction. Fast. Turning to the side, he gestured toward one of the Molina cousins. “Find me Amado.”

There’s a clatter of the cymbals as the song changed from a flurry of beats to a drip of languorous sound. Miguel watched as the men grabbed their dates, fat bellies and sagging skin, pressing against younger women across the dance floor. It was natural of course, what the old men paid for, slipping white dusted American twenties into the slim shadow where satin met skin to pay for the privilege of stripping straps off shoulders. There was a pattern to it, first the drinks, then the dancing, then whatever grotesque desires hid in the dark. The man with Isabella pulled her close. Miguel could see his sausage fingers pressing wrinkles into her delicate dress as the music grinded her against him. It would be so easy to end his torture, to crook a finger and have the man removed, or else have Isabella brought to him. But should he do that, it would be as good as admitting defeat. She would know she had won, that he wanted her as much as she him. Instead he contented himself to the sweet torture of watching, imagining, letting desire and fury shift low in his belly. 

Miguel chased anger with tequila, wrapping his fingers around the clear glass to keep himself from palming at his pants beneath the tablecloth. Cold and sharp, the clear liquid tingled in his mouth as he swilled it, letting it wash down the back of his throat with half lidded eyes. When he opened them again, he knew Amado was behind him, could feel the weight of him leaning ever so gently against Miguel’s chair. “Your dog,” the Molina cousin grunted, sneering at Amado. Miguel dismissed him with a flicker of his eyes, and waited as the narco slunk back toward the dance floor before gesturing to the chair next to him. 

“Your dog is it?” Amado said, landing in the offered seat with a definitive thump. There was something about the way the taller man stood, sprawled, that Miguel couldn’t help but envy. Where Miguel was neat, contained, each gold cufflink gleaming at his wrists, nary a button or wrinkle out of place, Amado was messy. There was just so much of him. Long legs that spread out beneath the tablecloth, large hands that wrapped around Miguel’s own as he peeled the glass from Miguel’s hand and downed the rest of the tequila. His pilot shifted in his seat as he swallowed, and each time his legs bumped him, Miguel could feel a jolt of excitement run through his cock. It was all he could do not to squirm in his seat. 

Were they alone in Amado’s cockpit, the wheels still against the asphalt, Miguel might have leaned across and caressed Amado’s cheek, let his nails twist through the taller man’s hair, and drag his head down toward Miguel’s waiting cock. But they were not in Amado’s cockpit. Alone though they were on the dais, the room was full of revelers. 

“Yes,” Miguel‘s words were a forced whisper, harsh and aching as he turned his lips toward Amado’s ear, “my perrito,” letting his tongue linger on the rolled r. “I think it’s high time you put that puppy tongue of yours to work.” 

Purple flushed along Amado’s jaw as the taller man processed Miguel’s meaning. The man was obscenely beautiful when he blushed. “Oh?” Amado said a few seconds later, once he had regained a measure of composure, “Here?”

“Yes, Amado,” Miguel said, drawing Amado’s hand to his lap, “Here. You will do this for me, will you not?”

Amado swallowed, his eyes scanning the dance floor. A second passed, then another. Finally, he nodded, curling his fingers around Miguel’s cock. He shifted again in his seat, and moved to get down but the brush of Miguel’s hand against his upper arm stopped him. “Not yet,” Miguel said, “wait until I tell you. And be discreet.”

Amado’s presence had distracted him enough that he lost sight of Isabella in the crowd. His gaze slipped through the crowd, looked for the unmistakable red of her gown, her lips, her fingernails sharp enough to draw blood. Ah, there she was, a vicious curve in a sea of blocks and lines. Though her body was pressed close to her companion’s, Miguel knew her. The other man might as well be a thousand miles away for how close he was likely to get to the flesh beneath crimson silk. With Amado’s practiced hand loosely palming his cock, Miguel waited. He was good at it. Good at holding himself back from the things he wanted most until the need for them crashed over him like a tidal wave. 

The song changed again, sped up, and the bodies charged forward to meet the beat. It was then that Isabella turned, caught his eye, his dark eyes. Stretching his arms to the side, Miguel knocked the empty tequila, watched it tumble against the tablecloth and clatter to the ground. “Amado,” he said, voice steady, controlled, “get that for me, would you?” 

Amado moved immediately, as though every muscle in his body had been waiting for the command; in the space of a mariachi beat, the larger man slipped beneath the tablecloth and into the shadows. The first thing Miguel felt was the warmth of him hovering against Miguel’s spread legs. There was no risk of hearing his belt click open in the raucous room, and yet Miguel felt his heart skip as Amado’s fingers unthreaded the leather and slid down his zipper. There would be no wriggling on Miguel’s part, no chance for Amado to slip his hands beneath Miguel’s ass and squeeze him the way Miguel liked. Just his cock, breathing free as Amado lifted it from his boxers, and Amado’s mouth, warm and wanting. Between the glimpses of Isabella in the kaleidoscope room and Amado’s help a few moments earlier, Miguel was fit to burst. He breathed slowly, forcing himself to calm. Still, it wasn’t enough to stop his breath from hitching as Amado took in the length of him. His eyes darted around the room, sure that someone had noticed the slight flush on the apple of his cheeks, or the way his eyes began to glaze. Another long suck, and Miguel found himself grasping at the red fabric, bunching it in his palms. This would not do. Leaning to retrieve the forgotten tequila glass, Miguel whispered “slow, perrito, I want to enjoy this,” into the dark of the tablecloth.

A waiter appeared at the crook of Miguel’s finger, and whisked away the empty glass, only to reappear a few moments later with a full one. Miguel nodded his thanks and cast his eyes back toward the dance floor. Below the table, Amado’s lips brushed the tip of Miguel’s cock, his tongue swirling slow circles against the head. True to form, Amado did all Miguel commanded with creativity and enthusiasm. One hand curled around his tequila glass, Miguel could not resist drawing the other beneath the tablecloth and threading it into Amado’s thick hair. His temple was damp beneath Miguel’s thumb as he rubbed it to the same pattern of Amado’s tongue. 

It was as though Amado was waiting for Miguel’s approval. Inch by inch, he took Miguel back in, his teeth whispering against Miguel’s sensitive skin. Miguel shuddered and took a sip of tequila, his other hand tightening on Amado’s scalp. Across the room, Isabella caught his eye. She had freed herself from her clumsy companion and was weaving her way through the throng to the dais. To him.

Tugging at Amado’s scalp, Miguel slowed his pace, catching his breath just in time for Isabella to free herself from the crowd. Each click of her heels against the wooden dais was a gunshot, pulsing through Miguel’s body. In just a moment she was beside him, eyeing the empty seat, still warm from Amado’s skin. “May I?” she asked, her voice light, casual. Not trusting himself to speak, Miguel gestured to the seat beside him. He was so close now, with Amado beneath him and Isabella at his side, it was almost too much to bear. 

“You were watching me,” she said, sitting in one smooth motion. The slit sat on the apex of her thigh, and fell like parted curtains to the floor. She crossed her legs, letting Miguel linger on her supple limbs. Luckily she made no move to shift beneath the tablecloth, no doubt preferring to leave herself exposed for Miguel’s benefit. He nodded, took a sip of tequila, and coughed as Amado swallowed him in, letting a tiny drop of the clear liquid dribble against his lips. Before he could lift a napkin, Isabella leaned toward him. Red lacquered nails scraped his skin as she brushed her thumb against the droplet then brought it to her own mouth.

Miguel nodded, swallowed, and forced his voice to an approximation of its usual control. “Yes,” he said in a breathy voice, “you wanted to be watched.” It was an observation, not an accusation. It left no room for disagreement. Lifting her chin, Isabella laughed that same throaty laugh she’d given the man across the room. It was quieter, more intimate, and yet Miguel knew instinctively that both laughs had been for him. 

“You know me too well Miguel Ángel,” she said softly. Her smile was wistful as she leaned back in her chair, setting her shoulders as the light danced across the swell of her breasts. “I wish there were more about me you wished to discover.”

Amado must have heard her, must have sensed Miguel’s attention shifting, have felt the way Miguel’s hand loosened against his hair, because he took this moment to intensify. He sucked at Miguel’s cock like a drowning man gasping for air, took Miguel in again and again, licking up his shaft then back to the head. 

“Ahh,” Miguel let out, wincing at the ineloquence, “Isabella,” and she laughed again, bridging the gap between them again to caress his cheek. Her hand was cool against his skin as he came into Amado’s wanting mouth. He closed his eyes, let his grip loosen from Amado’s hair, and reached down to pat Amado’s cheek. He knew how hard Amado must be beneath the soft fabric of his dress pants. Later, when they were alone in Miguel’s office, he’d reward his pilot, his perrito. He’d tell Amado to undress, to bend over the glossy wood of Miguel’s desk, and he’d fuck Amado until he saw more stars than he did in the sky. Perhaps he’d even let Amado fuck him. Yes, Miguel shifted slightly as Amado pulled back and slipped Miguel’s cock into his pants, that’s what he would do. He could almost feel the ghost of Amado’s cock against him now in this rickety chair. Rarely did he let the bigger man take when Miguel preferred him to give, but he had already been so generous tonight, he had certainly earned it. 

Miguel could hear the scrape of wood against wood beside him. When he opened his eyes, Isabella was standing, watching him. Some intoxicating scent wafted from her neck and Miguel forgot himself for a moment in the taste of her perfume in the air. Instinctively, Miguel reached for her, catching her slim wrist in his own small hand. He brought her wrist to his lips, brushed it with a kiss before looking up to meet her eyes. She must know, must see that this is what Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo looked like sated, wanting still. It was as close as he came to a confession, his breath hitching still in his chest, his lips parted and wet, his eyes heavy lidded with satisfaction and desire. Isabella smiled her dark smile and leaned down to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Tell Amado I say hello,” she whispered into his ear. Then she was gone, back into the fray, and Miguel was alone again.


End file.
